


Agriculturally Yours

by Flinched



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Derek is a closet cat lover, Farmer!Derek, Greenberg is awesome, Grouchy Derek with passive-aggressive tendencies, Hitchhiker!Stiles, M/M, assholes in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flinched/pseuds/Flinched
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale had a farm. And on that farm he had a fat, useless cat, two irritable goats, and numerous dried out fields that hadn't seen a drop of water in two months.</p><p>Then that stupid, weird kid with his stupid, weird buzz cut turned up and everything changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Planting the Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> This pretty comes from [this](http://fuckyeahstilesderek.tumblr.com/post/55925294250/i-think-dereks-heart-is-in-the-right-place-as) quote Tyler Hoechilin said about Derek living on a farm. I dig it, man. 
> 
>  
> 
> _I still don't have a beta. So if you have any criticism, or you see any errors do let me now and I'll fix 'em up!_

Derek had never seen a summer like it. It was hot and dry and his fields were baron. The earth was fissured; angry red, puckered and begging for water. Seven weeks and not a single drop of rain. Luckily Derek only had to look after himself so it wasn’t so bad, but if the rest of the family still lived on the farm Derek wasn’t sure they’d have been able to cope.

“It’ll rain soon,” he told himself as he shovelled the alfalfa pellets into Nelly and Annabelle’s trough (he’d had to switch to pellets once the fields were bare and the supply of hay began to dwindle – next week he’d get some from Harris who lived a couple of towns over.) He scratched his chin idly as Annabelle ambled over on rickety old legs. There was a perpetual scowl in her eyes, but then again, you don’t often find many cheery faced goats.

Derek had no idea why his family decided to buy a farm out in the middle of nowhere, selling their estate and moving to the south, but he was glad they did. Damned drought aside, life on the farm suited him just fine; he liked the peace and quiet – though his mom always did say that farms were for families, that living alone on an empty farm was a sad, hard life. It wasn’t so bad. Though it would have been nice to have someone to talk to other than a couple of goats and a housecat. A greedy, fat housecat that was giving him the squint-eye from the porch.

Derek sighed and wiped off his jeans. Must be about lunchtime then. Greenberg stared soulfully at him, never making a sound, but the longing was clear in his round, unblinking eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” Derek muttered, “I get it.” That cat was by far the worst investment Derek had ever made. Finstock had said he’d be great for catching mice and rats (Derek hadn’t known that Greenberg was a twenty pound, ginger tabby with an affliction for bacon). In Greenberg’s defence, he did try to chase a rat once… which unfortunately turned into the rat chasing _him_. 

So now Greenberg tended to sit on the porch, watching the rats scarper from the fields to the barn or staring at Derek like he was the source of his obesity and abysmal rat-catching skills.

It was probably the only reason Derek kept him around. Derek was a gruff, reclusive social-hermit. He _wanted_ shitty looks; he’d _earned_ them. Yet every time he came into town all he got was piteous smiles and whispers followed him like a second shadow. It had been like that since the fire. 

Derek hated it. He started hearing phrases like _“It’s such a shame”_ and _“He used to be such a good boy”_ as if Derek himself had died – like the death of his family had mutated him into some sort animal to be observed. It was clear people thought he had changed, and not for the better. So Derek reacted in the only way he knew how, he started avoiding the problem entirely. 

Sure, he did odd jobs for the lady down by the (probably dried out by now) lake. He helped out anybody who asked it of him, even if it was just “to take his poor mind off of things”. He sold his own produce at the Sunday market. He painted fences and rewired light switches and fixed broken sinks, but he didn’t talk about it. He didn’t “let it all out” like they hoped he would. He remained silent.

They were wrong. It wasn’t the fire that changed Derek – it was everything else.

Greenberg butted into his leg with the force of a small bus. Derek dutifully opened the door for him. It had been a long time since Greenberg had used the cat flap – Derek wondered if it was because he was too fat or if Greenberg just liked to see his human slave wait on him like he was a king.

“I’ve still got to feed the cattle,” Derek reminded the cat as he followed its waddling behind into the kitchen, the fluffy, ginger tail swishing along the floor lazily. Even Greenberg could hear the lie in his grouchy bravado. “I’m serious,” he sniped as Greenberg plopped next to his bowl, “You’ll have to wait. They need water and food, and if they die I don’t have anything to sell at the cattle market.” 

Greenberg didn’t move, staring despondently. “Do you know what I get if _you_ die? A new pair of slippers. You tell me who I’m gonna feed first.”

Greenberg flicked his ear and yawned a long, silent yawn. 

Derek tutted loudly and opened the tin cat food like a good little minion, “Of course, you don’t give a damn about my cows. The sooner you get stuck in a hole somewhere the better.” Greenberg’s greedy little face lit up with anticipation. Derek took twisted pleasure in leaving the bowl of food on the counter when he went to feed the rest of the livestock, knowing that Greenberg was far too fat and not even close to agile enough to jump up on the counter.

When he came back into the kitchen 45 minutes later Greenberg was nowhere to be seen. Derek suspected he’d find cat poo behind the TV later as punishment. It was worth it. 

Derek set about getting his own lunch, putting the cat food in it’s rightful place by the coat stand as he did so. He spent an extra minute of so rummaging around the fridge just so he could feel the chill against his skin. It was sticky-hot and Derek felt like he’d had a perpetual sheen of sweat for the past seven weeks. It was forecast rain sometime next week – then again, it had been forecast this week too – either way, Derek was sure the rain was coming soon, so he was going to plough the fields for the rest of this week and hopefully he’d have some god-damned vegetation to give him something to actually do for the first time in two months.

When Derek turned back with cheese, ham and butter in hand Greenberg was at his bowl eating in his usual slow, methodical manner. Derek snorted pulled bread out of the pantry, glancing back at the open fridge – he was only going to open it again when he put everything back so why bother closing it at all? – where he noticed the very-nearly empty litre of milk standing in the door. 

Derek scowled, jamming the knife into the butter before stalking back over to the fridge. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, jigging the milk in its carton like it would magically produce more. This was the third week in a row Harris hadn’t delivered any. He’d have to go into town again. The grocery store closed at two pm on a Friday; it was one o’clock now – he could make it if he hurried, “Better get just it over with.” 

Derek grabbed his wallet and keys and marched through the door, throwing an irritated “Watch the house, Greenberg,” over his shoulder. His sandwich left unmade, the butter already beginning to melt on its plate.

It would take Derek about half an hour to get into town if he was using any other vehicle than his worn out pickup truck, which meant it’d would be closer to a 40-45 minute drive… if his car didn’t break down, which it liked to. Frequently. Especially in when it was hot.

Usually, Derek liked living a good distance away from anyone else. It meant he had to deal with less people who were ‘just dropping by’ which was always a good thing in his books. He wanted a simple life; his mom had always said he’d be one to stay on the farm, that he’d be the last to leave. He didn't think she meant he’d be the only one left alive to actually live there.

Derek was less then ten minutes into his journey when he spotted a body by the side of the track splayed flat out on the ground. He sighed noisily, snooping as much as he could through the passenger window. No movement. He slowed to a gradual halt, jumped out, and proceeded toward the body with caution. Derek figured he’d check to see if they were dead, and then he’d be on his way – either to the police station or the grocery store.

He couldn’t see much from this angle, but there wasn’t any blood so it was less likely a hit-and-run victim and more likely a passed out drunk. Derek nudged the body with his boot, “You alive?”

The bodysprang to life, yanking headphones out of it’s – no, his – ears and flailing his arms to retain his balance as he scrambled to get up. “Oh hey! Erm, can you give me a lift? I’m trying to get to the nearest hotel,” he asked, which confirmed Derek’s greatest fear. It wasn’t a drunk or a dead body; it was just some dumb kid.

Derek stared, unimpressed, “You’re a hitchhiker.”

The kid rubbed the back of his neck before running his fingers over his buzz cut. The bridge of his nose was reddened with freckles speckled over the tops of his cheeks, clearly fair skinned – how long had he been out in the sun? “Ahh, yeah, that’s me.”

“You’re doing a fine job of it lounging around the side of the road and getting heatstroke.” 

Buzz Cut eyed him incredulously, “Well _you_ stopped, didn’t you?” 

Derek was taken so aback it could have very likely caused whiplash. He stared for a moment, at loss for words. There was a flicker of satisfaction in Buzz Cut’s smirk, and of course, he instantly wanted to wipe it off his face via his fist. “You’ll be looking for a long time then, the nearest town is 20 miles south. There’s a barber, a grocery store and a laundrette. No hotel though.”

And if that didn’t do the trick. Buzz Cut’s smile dropped off his face so quickly Derek briefly thought he needed medical attention. “God, I really am in the south. There’s a bar though, right?” 

“No bar.” Derek said agreeably, watching him as he straightened his shirt with thin fingers – he was kind of skinny overall – well, not exactly skinny, but he definitely didn’t work on a farm, so in _comparison to Derek_ he was. Derek would have guessed he was about 18 or 19. “You run away from home?”

“What?” Buzz Cut squinted up at him, “No. I’m a hitchhiker. Haven’t we just established that?”

Derek smirked, “How old are you? 15? 16?”

Buzz Cut barked out a false laugh before abruptly cutting himself short. “Fuck you, buddy. I turn 20 next week.”

Derek crossed his arms, leaning against the side of his truck. “Still too young to be drinking alcohol then. Where are you hitchhiking to?”

“You know, you’re really starting to sound like one of those hillbilly serial killers in just about every Texas-based horror film.” Buzz Cut complained. He picked up the bag that he had been curled against when he was praying on the moral obligations of passers by to get his way about the country.

“I’m not the dumb kid stranded 20 miles out of town in the middle of a draught with no means of transportation,” Derek argued. It was true; if Derek was playing the serial killer trope, then Buzz Cut was definitely the stupid teenager that gets killed in the first ten minutes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re my means of transportation” Buzz Cut said, throwing his bag at Derek (which he deliberately didn’t catch.) He looked at Derek, then back to his crumpled bag, then back up at Derek. “Wow, you’re an asshole.” Derek didn’t care. Buzz Cut sighed, “I don’t know where I’m going, just wandering I guess.”

Derek snorted, unfolding his arms and picking up the bag before throwing it through the window and onto the passenger seat. “Well that’s not very useful if I’m going to give you a lift – but then again I _am_ a serial killer, so that doesn't really matter…” 

Buzz Cut beamed and Derek felt the tips of his ears burn uncomfortably – must have been out in the sun too long. Derek supposed the kid could stay with him a couple of days; it wasn’t like he had anything better to do. He had the space, plus he could do with an extra set of hands on the farm. And the nearest hotel was maybe and hour and a half away. It wouldn’t hurt to ask him to stay, even if his haircut was a crime to humanity. Derek jerked his head toward the passenger seat as he walked round to his side of the car, “Get in then.”

“Besides,” Buzz Cut chattered happily as he ambled in after, “My dad’s a sheriff so if you do murder me, he’ll find you and gut you like a fish.”

Derek rolled his eyes as he closed the door behind him. “I’m not going to murder you.” Derek paused before starting the car; and before he knew it the words were spilling out of his mouth. “If you’re looking for somewhere to stay I’ve got plenty of space at my farm if you want to stay there for a few days.”

“Serial killer vibe is back.”

Derek scowled and visibly sat back away from the steering wheel with a sour expression. “You can stay right here in the middle of nowhere if you want to.”

“Oh my god, fine!" Buzz Cut spluttered theatrically before slumping against the window. "Yes, I want to. Crash at yours, that is. I mean I’m not going to turn down a free bed, am I?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Geez, grumpy much? I’m gonna ring my Dad and tell him exactly where we are anyway.” 

“You do that.”

Buzz Cut rolled his eyes and rummaged around his bag before pulling out his cell phone. “My name is Stiles by the way – don’t give me that look. You don’t wanna even try to pronounce my real name.” Derek nodded, eyes on the road and already beginning to feel awkward. Buzz Cut snickered. “What about you, beefcake? Or shall I just keep calling you The Stubblegrumbler in my head?”

Derek questioned his sanity. “Don’t make me regret this,” He warned. Buzz Cut – no, _Stiles_ – waved his arms in what Derek supposed was meant to be placating. “My name is Derek.”

“Well then, Derek, take me home.”

 _Home,_ Derek thought to himself. _That sounds nice._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bahaha I love Greenberg - he's the shining star to come out of this for me. It's now my eternal head-cannon that Derek is a closeted cat lover... but only snarky, gtfo cats.
> 
> I haven't really sorted out the fine-print yet... I'm feeling like it's going to be maybe.... three chapters long? Yes. Three. 
> 
> Hit me up on [ tumblr!](http://flinchedfics.tumblr.com) I'm a bit shy so I definitely won't start the conversation first but I'd love to chat with you guys some more!


	2. Fevered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Still don't have a beta! Embrace my spelling mistakes! Embrace them!_

Derek was only feeling slightly homicidal by the time he and Stiles pulled up into the driveway. That damned stupid Stiles really _had_ gone and gotten heatstroke by the looks of it. His cheeks were rose-dusted and sweat had beaded at down his neck. Stiles’ was resting his temple against the window as he slept. He needed the shade, a glass of water and a good night’s sleep. 

And to top it off Derek forgot got his milk.

Stiles snorted awake, bleary eyed and confused, as Derek turned off the engine. “Sit here for a moment,” Derek muttered, “and try not to pass out again.”

“‘Kay,” Stiles murmured, rubbing at his face slowly. 

Derek frowned, picking up the four bags of shopping (none of which contained milk Derek acknowledged sourly) and making his way to the house. He stumbled over Greenberg as he tried to push into the kitchen without taking the cat out in the process. Greenberg wound around his legs eagerly, and Derek sighed a grade-A aggravated sigh. “Out of the way,” he sniped as he dropped the bags on the counter, poured a glass of water and headed back outside.

When Derek got back to his truck Stiles had seemed to have perked up a little, but not too much. 

“Here.”

Stiles accepted the glass gratefully, gulping down half the glass in one sitting. He looked tired still, but definitely not as worrying as he had been during the ride back to the farm. 

“So,” Stiles croaked with his face still firmly pressed against the glass. Must have been cold. “You failed to mention that you lived in the closest thing to a possible to a hallmark card.”

Derek shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. Stiles smiled, “You are literally are the first person who just admits that you have no idea what to do with me. I love it. You just let me babble. Embrace my weird, dude.”

“I don’t know what to do with anyone,” Derek admitted stiffly, “and you’re not weird. But you do talk too much.”

Stiles snorted into his drink, “Way to make a girl feel special.” Derek frowned as Stiles handed the glass back to him. “Oh my god, is that a goat?”

Nelly was squinting over to look at them with a stern gaze. He staggered on his feet, looking pretty close to confrontational. “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Derek warned Stiles, who was pushing out of the seat to investigate. “He _will_ charge at you, and it’ll be just as undignified as it sounds.”

Stiles deflated back into the car seat. “I don’t think even my ego can bare being taken down by a goat. I feel dizzy.” 

“That’s because you’re about five minutes away from getting full on heat stroke.”

Stiles pulled a face, “I am not.” He said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Derek smirked, “Come on.” He said as he ushered Stiles towards the house, mindful to keep Nelly on his other side. Derek had learnt the pain of a goat to the shin the hard way, and he believed Stiles when he said he would handle that shame particularly well. God knows Derek didn’t for the first few attacks.

“I’ve got a headache,” Stiles moaned miserably as they walked into the kitchen. 

“ _That’s_ because you’re a moron,” Derek supplied. He gently pushed Stiles through the doorway when he paused to rest against the door frame. “Maybe next time, you won’t sit out in the midday sun in the driest summer we’ve had in years.”

Stiles brushed him off with a shrug, “Whatever you say – oh my god. Your kitchen is a mess.”

As Derek came around the door he could see his groceries scattered over the floor. Thankfully the eggs were still intact. The cooked ham, however, was nowhere to be seen. “Greenberg!” Derek hissed as he spotted an orange tail poking out from under the chair legs. He ignored Stiles’ incredulous echo of _“Greenberg?”_

Derek pulled the chair away to reveal his cat splayed out in all his unrepentant glory, the remains of cooked ham (i.e. the damning evidence) scattered around him. 

Stiles flopped into the chair, “Derek, dude, no offense, but that is the single fattest cat I’ve ever seen.” 

Derek scowled as he picked up the neglected groceries from the floor and began to pack them away. “He’s not that fat,” he argued and secretly hated how defensive he sounded.

Stiles scrambled to help, “Here man, lemme give you a hand.” 

Derek shook his head, “Just sit.” He ordered, “and drink some more water. The last thing I need is you collapsing.” Stiles grumbled back into the chair, muttering something about overprotective alpha male personalities and Derek couldn’t deny the twisting in his stomach. Who was this boy? 

Derek refilled Stiles’ glass and placed it in front of him. “It’s really not that bad,” Stiles said as he picked the glass up, “but I can see this is a thing for you. So yeah, bottoms up.” It definitely was that bad, but Derek didn’t see the point in arguing when Stiles was drinking anyway. Instead Derek settled for scowling. 

“I don’t even feel that warm anymore.”

“That’s worse, Stiles.” Derek grabbed a hand towel and held it under cold-water tap before handing it over to him. “Use this. You’ll feel better.” 

“Doubtful,” Stiles murmured, pressing his face into the fabric. 

Derek crossed his arms over his chest smugly, “I thought it wasn’t that bad.” 

Stiles glared from over the top of the towel, “I am a fickle creature, Derek. Therefore I am right, you are wrong, and the world is how it should be. Now excuse me as I wallow in my misery.” 

Derek’s folded arms fell away from his chest. “Come on,” he said as he pulled Stiles up, who had gone startlingly pliant. Derek led them to the lounge and pushed Stiles back into the couch. “You need to sleep it off for a few hours.” 

Stiles nodded as he flopped into pillows, “No arguments here.” Stiles was loose and long limbed as he settled into sleep. “Thanks, man. You’re, like, way too nice… I’m still not convinced you’re not a serial killer.”

“Don’t worry,” Derek replied, “I like to wait until my victims are asleep before I dice them.”

Stiles snorted into the cushion but his eyes were already drooping. “Oh, we’ve got a comedian over here.” 

“Who said I’m joking?” Derek closed the blinds and headed toward the kitchen, “get some sleep. I’ll be around when you wake up.”

“ _If_ I wake up.”

Derek chuckled as he closed the door.

The sun was setting and the skyline looked almost dusty with heat. Everything looked so much more beautiful at dusk, Derek thought. The light was so soft and hazy. It was ambient. Peaceful. Stiles had slept for more than a few hours. Derek had the time to put away the groceries, finish his chores, feed Greenberg (again), make up Stiles’ bed in the guest room and was just replacing the planks of rotten wood on the back porch when Stiles wobbled out of the door. 

Derek hammered another nail as Stiles tottered over. His cheeks were still red with sunburn, but now it was _only_ sunburn and not the sickly hot red that came with heat exhaustion.

“Are you even real? Who walks round in a dirty, white tank top hammering things like that? You like something out of a true romance film. Are you gonna chop firewood next?”

Derek’s ears burned. For one mortifying second he thought Stiles was going to say he looked like something out of a film of a very different nature, which would be absurd seeing as he’d known Derek for all of ten minutes. “Don’t be stupid,” Derek returned gruffly, “It’s way too hot for that.”

The way Stiles eyed him up from the side told Derek that he appreciated more than just his sense of humour. “Oh, sorry, my bad. Maybe you could hunt some deer or wrestle a live bear to exert your masculinity instead?”

Derek grunted and pulled the last plank of wood to pin into place. “Nah, scared ‘em all off.”

Stiles barked a laugh and sat down beside him. “I don’t know if you’re trying to be funny, or if you’re genuinely that deadpan. Oh look, your obese cat is here.” 

Greenberg waddled over and butted his head against Stiles’ side as if to say ‘get away from my human’. “I don’t think he likes me, maybe he heard me.” Stiles commented, running his fingers along his spine. Greenberg wailed and flopped over onto his slide. Stiles grinned, scratching his ears. “Oh my god, you’re too easy.” 

It was a fair statement. Greenberg was a simple cat with simple desires; food and belly-rubs. Derek made quick work of the last plank, and made a mental note to repaint the porch.

“So I gave my Dad a call,” Stiles started, “he sounded glad to know that I was alive. He said my friend, Scott, was in the area. We’re a couple hours outside of Austin, right?”

“Try six.”

“Right, okay. That’s great to hear. So my friend Scottie is in Austin and wants to meet up with me.” Stiles smiled brightly as Greenberg clambered up onto his lap, paws pressing up onto his chest. “He’s very needy.”

“He won’t leave you alone now,” Derek promised. “So, do you want a lift into Austin? Because that’s too far for me to drive but I know a guy –” 

“No! God. No, that’s not – what I’m saying is Scott’s seeing his girlfriend, Allison, in Austin. He’s gonna be there for a couple of weeks and then he’s gonna pick me up if that’s okay? It’s fine if you’re not okay with that. I mean, I’ll just stay at a hotel for until he can pick me up.” 

Derek stood, “That’s fine. I’ve got plenty of space. Do you want some food?” 

Stiles looked confused as he followed him up, Greenberg rolled sideways with an indignant hiss. “What? Yeah. Who turns down free food? Wait a minute, are you really okay with that? I can seriously just hitch a ride to nearest hotel.”

“I said it’s fine, didn’t I?” Derek muttered, walking back into the house toward the kitchen. “Is chicken okay? Greenberg ate the ham.” 

Stiles scrambled after him, knocking over a table in the process. He quickly propped it back onto its legs. “Chicken is good.” As if on cue, Greenberg trotted in after them. “But thanks. This is, like, really nice of you. I can totally help you fix up the place too, you know, earn my keep and all that.”

“Damn right, you will.”

Stiles halted behind him. “Dear lord, how do you converse with normal people? I’m trying to say thank you here and you look like you’ve swallowed a lemon. No, even swallowing a lemon sounds like it’d be more enjoyable than what that face is trying to emote.” Stiles bounced over to the island top in the kitchen as Derek scrounged around the fridge for said chicken. “It’s kinda fun actually. Oh, _thank you,_ Derek! I don’t know how I could ever repay you, you beacon of charity and good will!” He professed with a delivery that sounded much to thankful to be considered anything close to sincere. 

“Shut up, Stiles.” 

He sagged against the counter overdramatically, “Just accept my gratitude like an actual person then!” 

Derek slammed the meat onto a chopping board with more force than necessary. “You are ridiculous,” he snarled through his embarrassment. Stiles seemed to sense his discomfort and instead of pushing the subject he snickered and waggled his eyebrows. 

They prepared dinner together. Stiles could only sit and watch Derek butcher a perfectly good chicken breast for so long before he felt his OCD rise to the surface. He pushed Derek out of the way with a cry of outrage and took to slicing the chicken as well as he could with such abysmally blunt knives. Out one point he mournfully declared that he might as well have been using a spoon. 

It was rather instinctual for Derek to get out the rest of the ingredients and wash them for Stiles to chop after he was done with the meat. It was something he used to do when his mother cooked. Soon enough the pasta was boiling, and Stiles had made a tomato sauce of a calibre that Derek himself would never have dreamed of making. 

“I used to cook for my Dad,” Stiles explained as Derek drained the pasta. “He had a few health problems, so I had to learn how to cook proper food before he ate himself into an early grave with all those beef burgers he likes so much. Where are your plates?” 

It was a redundant question because by the time Derek had turned to show him, Stiles had already opened the cupboard and pulled them out. 

“Is your dad okay?” He asked, placing the strainer on the side. 

Stiles’ brow creased. “What? Oh, yeah. He’s as fit as a fiddle – he, um, had some alcohol issues in his earlier years. It messed up his kidneys, and I’m crazily health aware is all.”

Derek hummed in understanding. “My sister was a little like that,” he said quietly. Stiles smiled.

“It’s a total nightmare, right? My dad was always complaining. Guess I’m too bossy for my own good sometimes.”

And just like that, dinner was ready. The easy conversation flowed in a way that Derek hadn’t experienced in years. It took him a while to get used to actually sitting and enjoying his meal with someone who could actually talk back. (Greenberg didn’t know how to handle _not_ being fussed over if the sour look was anything to go by.) 

The food was good too. Derek hummed again, “S’good.” He said through a mouthful of food. 

The reaction was not what he expected. Stiles’ (already pink) face flushed, his neck blooming splotches of red. “Thanks,” he said, sounding bashful. “I can cook, I can clean. I’m the perfect housewife.” He cringed, “Not that I want to marry you or anything.” 

Derek smirked around his fork. He enjoyed the rare moment for what it was: Stiles did not seem like the type to be easily embarrassed. “Are you trying to say I’m not marriage material?” 

“No!” Stiles twitched so violently he nearly fell off his chair, “You’re very marriage worthy! I know a zillion girls that’d throw themselves into a fight to the death to get all over that.” Stiles twitched again before he shrunk into his plate and stabbed at his pasta fiercely, “Oh god, shut up. Don’t say a word.” 

Derek grinned and took a swig of his soda. “That’s good to know.”

Stiles peeked up through his lashes and smiled. “Happy be of service,” he said as he drank from his own glass. He paused, before placing his glass back down. “How long have you had this place? You’re doing it up, right?”

“My family had it for years,” Derek replied uneasily, “I took over it a few years ago. Laura, my sister, was supposed to have it but… it’s mine now.” 

Stiles had the sense not to pry any further and nodded, “Well, it certainly suits you. Especially with all that hammering, and that tank top, and the goats. It’s almost criminal how much you suit this place.” 

They cleared away the table together. Derek tried to tell Stiles that he could manage but he wouldn’t have it. He said that they cooked together, so they should clean up together, and Derek couldn’t really argue with that logic. Derek then showed Stiles to the guest room where he’d brought Stiles’ backpack to when he was sleeping. He’d grabbed some towels and told Stiles his was free to use the shower at the end of the hall as and when he wanted to. 

“Feel free to raid the fridge whenever you want too.” 

Stiles smiled and gave a jaunty salute, “Will do. I might jump in the shower now,” he said, running a hand over his shaved hair. “I’m so sweaty, you wouldn’t believe it.” 

Derek gave a jerky nod. “If you have any washing, just leave it in the basket in the bathroom,” he said and turned towards his room. “Good night then.” He’d made it to the other end of the hall when Stiles called out. 

“Derek!” Stiles was leaning on the door frame with an lax smile, “Seriously, thanks. I can’t tell you how much it means to sleep on an actual bed tonight, so yeah. Thank you. Even if you don’t want to accept it, you’re having my gratitude whether you like it or not. I’ll see you in the morning.” 

Derek nodded again. “Yeah. Good night.” He closed his bedroom door behind him and stood in the centre of his room for a moment before he slumped over the edge of his bed. 

He didn’t move until he heard the shower running. It was then that he rolled over with his hands over his face and he wondered how on earth he was going to last two weeks with this kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I took 5 months to update. That's pretty terrible. Even for me. Sorry about that. I've decided that I have _no clue_ as to how long this fic is going to be. I'm enjoying Derek as some sort of handyman WAAAY too much. 
> 
> On a personal note, I feel that there is way too little Greenberg in this chapter.
> 
> Feel free to chat with me on tumblr! I'm terribly lonely and I'd love to hear from you. [Come and play!](http://flinchedfics.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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